To Be?
by helvengurl
Summary: So far, Arya has spurned Eragon's approaches. Her mother dies of a secret wound. As she realizes the dark game of politics her mother played, Arya does the only thing she can think of to save herself, and her people: An arranged marriage. To Eragon.
1. Chapter 1

Personally, I despise the eragon/Arya ship, but this is my attempt to write a decent fiction on this ship, and maybe if people actually read something that's palusable, not 'she was hiding her feelings' stuff that always happens, maybe we can all gain some fresh insight on it. And maybe I can make myself have the stomach of steel.

I look over the battlefield, still shrewn with the bodies of our enemies. The final battle was over a few weeks ago, and still they sit there. The traitor's head now sits upon a spike; his eyes partially picked out by a buzzard. I look at it stonily, and hear the soft footfall behind me. He stands next to me, looking at the same sight I do.

I hope he stays silent. I make no move to look at him, or even acknowledge his presence. To be honest, I love it as it is now- easy. Why complicate perfectly fine things? He breaths deeply, and I look at him. Still so young, but his features are clouded, as they have been since he brought upon Galbortorix his death blow. I sigh, and put my hand on his shoulder, keeping it stiff and straight; a warrior's greeting, I know.

So long as I stay like this- stiff and untouchable, perhaps any foolish ideas of his will be stayed. I realize he is not the type to hide things- as I am, but I feel as though my asking him to restrain himself is not to large a price. All I want is friendship. Because, really, our friendship is perfect. However, he prevents it from being just that.

I assume a cold voice, completely void of emotion, "You have cleared the land of a terrible stain. Do not allow it to dishearten you." he clasps my shoulder in a similar fashion, but is still distant. I continue, "You did your duty."

He says nothing for a while, and I drop my hand from his shoulder, crossing my arms in front of me as we overlook the horizon. Finally, the easy silence is broken by his words, "What is left now?"

I glance up to see Saphira flying amongst the blue sky, the black dragon by her side. It was our agreement; I would worry for Eragon's well being, and she would worry for Shruikan's. I keep my eyes fixed upon her; a symbol of hope for all, "Freedom. Sadness. Hope. And, most importantly, strength." As soon as the words part my lips, I know they were the wrong thing to say. I do not wish for another tedious speech, another unexpected kiss.

You see, with his endless wooing, he doesn't see that I like just fine what we are now: Companions. He thinks he can heal my broken, tortured heart. But, the thing is, is my heart isn't broken. It isn't tortured. It's just fine. He turns to me, his shadow lifting momentarily.

That's what I do to him. I give him false hope.

"And, healing?"

He asks it so simply, I nod. "For Alagaesia," I clarify, so he doesn't ask about me.

"And of you?" To late. He's on a roll, now, so there's no stopping him.

I look at the ground, "I have been healed. Faolins death no longer festers at me. And, did I not ask to leave this subject alone?" Really, why can't he leave it be? But he can't, he's a hound dog on the scent of a fox.

He remains cool and calm, "But if it is healed, why can it not be open?" A most excelent question, Eragon: Because I can not speak of him without you pressing your suit.

I stare back, my voice cold and even, "Because, this is not about him. It is about you. It is about you and your trying to press your suit with me, and I will not have it! We are friends, Eragon? Why can that not simply be left? You are so young, and I so ancient, comparatively."

I hate when he does this.

He looks as though I have slapped him. He looks at me, so filled with hurt.

He takes a breath, "You are right, Arya. It is about me. And it is about you." I expect him to stop now, but he doesn't, "And it is about how you let me see one part of you, that leads me to believe one thing, and then you speak another. What is it that you are denying?"

This.... boy.... is far to bold. My red ears give away my immense anger at him, and I struggle to keep my voice calm, "I am denying nothing. It is you who are in denial. You are choosing to look past the truth: We are nothing but friends, and if you wish that to remain. You will stop this."

Apparently it all is weighing down on him, because instead of letting me go, he pulls me close and kisses me.

He crushes me to him, tangleing his hands in my hair, proding me, trying to pour passion into it, but I won't let him. When I think he may stop, he instead pulls me closer, as I push him away.

My eyes are widened in shock as he finally lets me go. I glare at him, "And you have just lost that. I will put up with this no more. Goodbye, Eragon. May our paths be straight from this point on."

He knows what I have said: I do not wish to see him, ever again, and I turn and walk away, leaving him there.


	2. Chapter 2

I storm out. Colud he be anymore impertinant? Or, for that matter, forceful? I touch my lips where he so mercilessly crushed his own. They feel bruised, red, almost. I can not wait to leave this place, and walk again amongst my own. To be in the forest, near the Menoa Tree is the most relaxing way I can think of to spend my days.

To spend my days alone.

The monotonus stone walls bore me in ways the more organic nature of Ellesmera never could. In fact, I almost walked straight past my mothers door- that boy had me in such a tizzy! I knock upon my mother's door, Eragon causing me to do the one thing I thought I never would: ask my mother if I could return as princess of my people.

"My daughter, have you had enough of this charading as a human?" My mother seemed almost smug.

I set my lips tightly, "I did not ever charade as a human, mother. I studied them, observed them. I helped to make the peace which helped us to overthrow Galabatorix, but never did I charade. I simply feel that it may be the time to fullfil my birthright."

Blagden squacked from my mother's side the prophecy that had haunted me from my birth:

"Prince and Squire,  
Brings only strife-  
It is a dragon,  
You must ride."

Damn bird. I do believe my first official act a queen will be to wring his scrawny neck. That damn prophecy forced me to be something so unatural. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have touched an egg and it has failed to hatch. One can only take so much shame. "But you fail to realize, O Dark one, I have yet to be a rider, and fear I never will."

"Blue in sky,  
Raven-Haired,  
Sunset sweet,  
Upon it's tail."

Perhaps my first offical act as princess will be to wring his scrawny neck.

"Not Balck Glory,  
of the Morning,  
But Golden Rose,  
a Boat's a-mooring"

Who says I have to wait to be a princess to wring his scrawny neck? Now would do quite nicely. I don't need to hear the other four verses of the prophecy. "Shut that beak of yours, bird."

"Arya! How dare you!" my mother gasps.

"Pretty face  
and pretty blue,  
green magic  
is oh-so-true!"

My mother purs as she pets that annoying package wrapped in feathers' chest. If I simply mutter one word...

"Continue, my sweet Blagden." My mother gives me a look. This is a test- a test of my composure.

"Fly upon  
the wind's tail,  
From lost love,  
The heart is frail!

Blood upon the heart,  
And a kiss upon the lip,  
A forgotten art,  
from a rider's thought.

Princess, then queen,  
A rider's love,  
Thee shall be.  
Look onward to the dove!"

I smile sweetly at him, "Thank you, Blagden, for repeating that lovely poem." The only way I can get through that one more time, is perhaps fantisizing about all of the lovely ways I could harm him.

However, the moment I do, I feel no better than Du-

That is better left unsaid, I believe.

"Mother." I cross the threshold, thankful none of the lords or ladies are here, and I kneel at her feet, my head on her knees, "I wish to return to my people. As long as I have been amongst humans- the moment my kind comes, I feel so misplaced. However, even among mortals I am unfit!" Then I think of Durza- and what he did to me, what happened to me, I cannot hold back the tears.

They come slowly to me- as though I have forgotten to cry- and when they start, they do not stop. My mother pulls and coaxes me up onto her lap, and, like before I had any duty- perhaps the age of sixteen- I sat on her lap and cried. I cry bitterly, hatefully, elvenly, sadly, cruely, and, scarily enough: humanly.

For The first time since I was sixteen, I sit here on my mother's lap, and cry, and she treats me not as her subject- but as her daughter.

As humans treat their daughters. So often I see them- three generations thus, and I alway envied them, for their tinkiling laughter, hugs, and clear love, as opposed to my life.

Humans strive for immortality, but it is by their very mortality that they are most astonishing. The live life as it was meant to be lived: Constantly. We elves have suspended our lives from so long ago....

Lives I fear we will never revive.

Dead lives.

"My dear, You may come home as Princess." my mother shushed.

Home. Princess. Words washed away by my cold tears.

By my dead, elven tears.

I loved my crappy prophecy. I did it in true CP style. ;)


End file.
